


A Problem

by pettifogger



Series: Cover Me [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Coming In Pants, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Din Djarin is a consent king, Drunken Flirting, Explicit Consent, F/M, For best effect listen to Nobody by Mitski and I'm On Fire by Bruce Springsteen while reading, Frottage, Gunfights as flirting, Light Angst, Makeup Sex, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Non-Penetrative Sex, The reader is horny, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28538745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettifogger/pseuds/pettifogger
Summary: “I have a mission,” he says, finally. He’s not looking at you. His visor faces the viewport, his gaze trained on something outside. “Take the child to the Jedi. You’re not my mission.”His words are a blaster bolt straight to the stomach. You weren’t expecting kindness, not after what you said last night, but he’s crueler than you thought he would be. He keeps talking, even though you wish he would stop.“Why can’t I stop thinking about you?”Or: a separation, a reunion, a fight, and a détente. It would all be easier if you and the Mandalorian could admit you still want each other.Part 3 ofCover Me(can be read as a standalone, though):Part 1→Part 2→Part 3(you’re here!) →Part 4→Part 5
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You, The Mandalorian/Reader
Series: Cover Me [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057175
Comments: 22
Kudos: 260





	A Problem

There’s a rivalry among Mon Calamari fishing companies on Trask. You didn’t know that when you landed in the Trask port. You figured finding work at a fishing company would be good work, but now said rivalry is actually starting to become something of a problem. You’ve been on the planet for six weeks or so, but you already have to keep track which taverns you can go into without getting glares from the patrons and which parts of town to avoid to stay out of scuffles. 

Naively, you’d thought that Trask would be a peaceful planet. Surely, quaint fishermen types aren’t prone to fighting, right? Wrong. You carry your blaster on your person at all times and hope you don’t have to use it. You really don’t want to clean ink and bits of raw seafood off your clothes if someone tests you. 

It’s fine when you’re at sea, though. You’ve never worked on a fishing trawler before, but it’s the kind of work you like. You love the salt breeze in your hair and your sore muscles at the end of the day from hauling nets. The job pays enough to afford one-room lodgings not far from the port, plus you’re able to squirrel away some savings to buy passage offworld when you inevitably get bored of Trask. You like your crewmates and you’ve even bought a sweater like the ones they wear.

You work, you drink, you explore. It’s a good life. And you only think about the Mandalorian at night. 

It’s not like you try to—it just happens. It’s a weird situation, of course. You haven’t seen him in almost two months, since you landed on Trask and parted ways, and you have no intentions to see him again. But you know more about him than almost anyone else—you know his name, after all. It’s not as if you’re well-versed in Mandalorian culture and history, but you know that knowing his name is significant. That, and you were in two near-death situations with him and risked your life for his son. Now you’re galaxies away from each other and you’ll probably never see him again. To say it’s a weird situation is an understatement.

When you landed on Trask after Maldo Kreis, he didn’t ask you to stay again and you didn’t bring it up. You just left, because freedom is the dearest thing to your heart and saying goodbye comes as easily as breathing to you. You can’t imagine being tied to anything—not a planet, not a ship, not a person—for all the stars in the sky. But at night, when you lay alone on your cot and listen to the chatter of the city outside, you can’t help but think about him. 

The Mandalorian. Din. Din and his child, flying from planet to planet, no home but the _Razor Crest_ and each other. If you’re honest with yourself, that concept had never occurred to you before you met those two: home being another person. Sure, they have the _Crest_ , but you have a feeling that for Din and his son, home isn’t a ship or a place. It’s each other. 

The Mandalorian is gruff and reticent, but in the week you spent stranded on Maldo Kreis, you caught him doting on the kid. You’d wander into the cockpit and find the kid passed out in the crook of the Mandalorian’s arm, still holding on to one of his gloved thumbs with a little green hand. You watched the Mandalorian cut food into little pieces for the child, even though the kid would eat food whole if he had his way. Little things like that. You’ve lived among vagabonds and drifters so long that you forgot that love like that exists somewhere out there. You saw that between Din and his son, and if you’re honest, it awakened a feeling that you thought had died a long time ago. Now you lay awake at night and ache to be loved like that, to be _known,_ and it _hurts_. 

Only at night, though. During the day you work yourself to exhaustion, and in the evenings you try not to start fights with rival fishermen. It’s a good life—for the most part.

☆

Shit goes sideways for the Mandalorian as soon as he lands on Trask. Shit like: his ship falls in the harbor. Shit like: he meets fellow Mandalorians, only for them to take off their helmets and tell him he was raised in a cult. Shit like that. He chooses to compartmentalize the cult thing and deal with it later, because he has a mission to complete. Find the Jedi. Find Ahsoka Tano. Deliver the child to her. Don’t think about what comes after. 

For a week after he leaves Trask, things feel off-kilter on the _Razor Crest._ For one, he spends days finding aquatic creatures from the Trask Bay hidden in every nook and cranny of the ship. The kid is delighted, of course, and well-fed, but if the Mandalorian finds another tiny squid hiding in a hole in the cockpit he’s going to lose his mind. For another, he’s worried about the repairs you made with him on Maldo Kreis, and even more worried about the repairs made by the grifter mechanics on Trask. He flies carefully for the first time in his life, for fear that the _Crest_ might just fall apart in space. There’s the infestation of marine animals, the questionable integrity of the hull, but there’s also the fact that the ship is—quiet. Too quiet. Without you banging around in the hull, fixing things and yelling sarcastic comments at him from the hold, space seems quiet. He wonders if it was always this way and he just never noticed before: silent as the grave, interrupted only by babbling from the kid or the clanging sound when he drops his ball on the floor. 

It’s too quiet when the Mandalorian goes to bed, for sure. He lays on his cot in the alcove for hours, the silence too loud for him to sleep. He thinks about you when he’s tossing and turning, even though he knows he shouldn’t. He _shouldn’t_. He barely knows you and you left without a second thought. He doesn’t miss you, not exactly, because he doesn’t _know_ you. But your presence, just for a week, was enough to make him question if perpetual solitude—minus the child, of course—is worth it. 

And there was the sex, too. Sometimes he’s laying in the cot and he imagines holding you, or he’s in the shower and remembers sinking into you and feeling you writhe under him, or he remembers the taste of you and the way your thighs shook around his head as you came on his tongue. How can he describe what that was? Fucking? That’s not the right word. Making love? Too dramatic, too emotional—not the kind of word you would use. Sleeping together? That’s wrong, too—you never made it anywhere close to a bed. That’s what he regrets most, actually, other than not having more time with you: the fact that he was with a beautiful woman, but he only took her on the dashboard of his cockpit and the floor of a captured ship. You deserved better. That regret keeps him up more often than he’d ever admit. And, when he thinks too long about it, he finds himself with a _problem_ on his hands. He ends up tired, frustrated, and hard as hell, but he can’t even do anything about it because the idea of touching himself while thinking about you makes him burn with guilt. 

Not that he’s in the habit of getting himself off. It’s not really—it’s not really his _thing_ , and there’s not much about the bounty hunting lifestyle that’s particularly stimulating. That is, before you hit him like a fucking meteor. Confident, fearless, beautiful—it all spells _problem_ for Din. Now he feels the urge more often than he has since he was young. But if the Mandalorian is any two things, he’s honorable and stubborn, so he refuses to indulge himself in the fantasies of what he wishes he had done with you. 

It means that he’s frustrated out of his mind, but at least he’s not doing wrong by you. That’s what he tells himself. 

He doesn’t sleep at night because he can’t stop thinking about you, and he can’t relax during the day because he can’t stop thinking about the inevitable result of his mission—giving up the child. He keeps himself busy, picking up pucks from Karga and hunting on the way to find Ahsoka Tano. Karga knows about the mission and conveniently assigns him jobs that won’t take him too far off course. The Mandalorian hunts and doesn’t even remember the names of the planets or of the people he catches. He tracks a human on a forest planet with plants that emit poisonous pollen that nearly gets under his helmet; a Rodian on a desert planet completely indistinguishable from Tatooine and Arvala-7; a Chiss who fights back surprisingly well, but ends up in carbonite just like the rest of them.

When the Mandalorian wrestles the Chiss on board the _Crest_ , a bag on the Chiss’ belt opens and spills glass marbles all over the floor. The kid’s big black eyes light up and he immediately summons them to his hands. For the next few days, Din catches the kid levitating the marbles like he’s trying to teach himself to juggle, and it’s so cute it feels like his chest is too small for his heart.

Din tries not to think about what will happen when he has to return the foundling to the Jedi. Instead, he just spends as much time with the kid as he can. He holds him as often as he wants to be held, whenever the kid tugs on his armor and reaches us with his little green hands. He tries to memorize all the funny noises the kid makes. He focuses on hunting and flying and delaying the inevitable. 

☆

Alright, so, you liked Mon Calamari— _past tense._ You’ve been on Trask for two months and you’re actually settling into maritime life when the bizarre fishing rivalry flares up. One stormy day, your trawler is racing a rival ship into port, and your captain beats theirs. Not a big deal, you think, until you step on the dock and almost get decked by a furious, four-foot-tall amphibian creature armed with a trident. You decide you’re _not_ going to risk your life for an age-old feud between squid people and start asking around for passage offworld. 

When you find a shipping crew on their way to Canto Bight, you eagerly hand over your credits and pack everything you own into your coarseweave bag. You unpacked just two months ago, but whatever—you want to get offworld as soon as possible. After all, all roads lead to Canto Bight; all drifters pass through there some time or another. You can’t say you’re sorry to say goodbye to Trask. As the planet grows smaller and smaller through the viewport of the departing ship, all you can think is _good riddance_. 

It’s exactly as easy to get hired on Canto Bight as you thought it would be. All it takes is showing off the skills you learned while working in the cantina on Tatooine, and you’re hired as a bartender in the main casino on the planet. You get to wear nice clothes and you actually have to make yourself presentable every day, which is such a change of pace that it feels fun rather than a chore. With access to the finest alcohol in the Outer Rim, you also get to make absurdly complex cocktails and make plenty of tips from wealthy gamblers. Your earnings go to a place to stay in the workers’ section of town and drinks in the rough-and-tumble cantinas far from the ostentatious city center. Half the time you’re in the world of luxury; half the time you’re in the world of drifters. It strikes a good balance. And there’s no rivalries to be seen here, no risk of a humanoid amphibian pulling a blaster on you over a load of fish. 

You work yourself to the bone and every night you hope to pass out without a single thought crossing your mind. Every time you fail. It’s something about your job that makes you buzz with restless energy. Every evening you stand behind the bar, looking like everyone’s fantasy. You give easy smiles and listen as patrons spill their hearts to you. They wink at you, flirt with you, try to get you to leave your station and join them in their hotel rooms. You know they’re sleazy—all of Canto Bight _oozes_ —but it makes you feel desirable. Alluring. _Irresistible_. On display, but you _like_ it. 

You wonder if you would’ve felt this way if it hadn’t been for the nights you spent with the Mandalorian. If you let yourself think about it, you realize it’s possible that you were a little bit dead before him. Before he called you _good girl_ and praised you while he worshipped your body. He made you feel pretty and desirable for the first time in months, maybe _years_ , and now you spend all day charming people but you don’t want a single one of them to take you home.

When your self-control inevitably crumbles and you slip your hands into your underwear at night, you’re never thinking about the patrons in their finery who wink at you and tip you with precious metal. You think about rough hands, a brassy baritone, and a blindfold, and you fall apart every time. 

☆

The Mandalorian hates Canto Bight. It’s big, chaotic, and populous—all of the things that make finding a bounty nigh impossible. Plus, it’s one of the few places in the Outer Rim where people dress for fashion rather than utility, so beskar armor stands out. Well, it stands out more than it already does anywhere else in the galaxy.

It all makes for a headache and nearly a week wasted in casinos and taverns and stables and back streets. The Mandalorian considers abandoning the mission out of sheer frustration and cutting his losses, but it’s the child who convinces him to stay. The kid, unsurprisingly, loves Canto Bight. When the Mandalorian finally lets him off the ship, his black eyes widen and reflect the gold lights of the city streets and he uses all his cuteness to convince Din to buy him cooked frogs and brightly-colored sweets from vendors along the sidewalk. He pitches a fit when the Mandalorian takes him back to the Crest to go to bed, and Din has to agree to let him explore a little more before they leave the planet. 

On their sixth day on Canto Bight, the Mandalorian decides that he’s not going to find the bounty in the upscale part of town. He’s slinked around the back doors of every casino and restaurant with no sign of the bounty in sight. He’s looking for a shipping captain in debt to a private client. It’s not exactly righteous work, but the client is willing to pay a fair amount and Canto Bight wasn’t too far out of the way. The client claimed that the wanted captain would be found wherever gamblers gather, and all signs point towards the seedier part of town. The Mandalorian is more than happy to get away from the world of finery. He’s much more comfortable in dark streets where people carry blasters out in the open rather than hiding them in their suit jackets and under their dresses. 

The Mandalorian tugs his cloak over his armor, vainly trying to dim the gleam of beskar, and ducks into a hole-in-the-wall tavern near the local marketplace. It’s dark outside and even darker in the tavern. His plan is simple: find someone who looks like they know what they’re talking about, and give a vague description of the bounty. He hopes that hypothetical someone is willing to give him information, and, if they’re not, his back-up plan is to intimidatingly put his hand on his blaster and ask again. Simple and to the point. Just the way the Mandalorian likes it.

That is, until he hears a familiar voice shout from across the tavern.

 _“Dank farrik.”_ He curses under his breath and debates ducking back out the door. It’s too late: he’s been spotted. A familiar female voice calls out to him and he has no choice but to walk towards it.

Cara Dune is sitting at a table surrounded by an array of soldier types in all shades of the rainbow. Her face is flushed with drink, but she grins at him with all-too-sober recognition.

“Mando,” she grins, and gestures to an open spot at the table. “Sit down. What are you doing here?”

The Mandalorian slowly lowers himself into the chair, all too aware of the uneasy looks he’s getting from everyone in the room. He puts both hands on the table— _empty_ hands—and watches as the tension decreases by a hair. Notoriety is useful sometimes, but it’s also a hassle when he’s trying to get in and out quickly. 

“I could ask you the same question.”

She leans back in her chair and sips an outrageously large flagon of ale. “Leave order,” she says. “Things are quiet on Nevarro, and Karga told me to kriff off for a week. I think I was annoying him.”

Din can’t imagine.

“Your turn,” she says. “What are you doing in a shithole like this?”

From behind him, the Mandalorian hears a shout of indignation—probably the proprietor overhearing, because Cara isn’t exactly subtle or quiet. She shrugs in their general direction. She doesn’t look particularly apologetic, either; so much for not drawing attention.

“Hunting,” he replies.

Cara rolls her eyes. “You’re chatty.” She looks around the table, as if noticing the discomfort on her companions’ faces for the first time. She elbows the Mythrol next to her. “We’re friends.” she tells him. “He’s fine. He won’t shoot you, unless he has to.”

The Mythrol gulps.

“So don’t make him,” Cara says. 

This is going to be a long night. 

☆

You’re on your way back to your lodgings when you run into one of the few people you know on Canto Bight: a fellow bartender at the casino, a Twi’lek nicknamed Ivaz. You like her—she’s friendly and has an absurdly keen ability to guess what drink patrons will order before they even speak. It’s become something of a game, the two of you guessing hypothetical drink orders, and you lose to her every time. You assume she’s there to chat about work. Normally, you’d welcome her in, but tonight you’re not in the mood. Hopefully, your hand frozen on your door with your entry key in your palm will cue her that you’re turning in for the night.

You start to wave her off, but she leans against your door frame and bats her eyes.

“You _don’t_ want to miss this,” she says. 

“Don’t want to miss what?” You’re _so_ tired. You already know it won’t be a good night’s sleep, because the street is as loud as a krayt dragon pit outside your window, but you want to lay down and close your eyes at the very least.

Ivaz grins. “Have you ever seen a shock trooper arm-wrestle a Mandalorian?” 

You turn around and stare at her. There’s no way. There’s no _fucking_ way. You stare at Ivaz, who smiles blithely back. 

“Have I ever seen a _what?”_ you manage.

“Exactly what I said,” she explains, and nods in the direction of the tavern down the street. “That way. Apparently it’s quite a show.” 

There’s no way. There are plenty of Mandalorians scattered across the galaxy, right? No reason to assume it’s your Mandalorian. Wait—did you just say _your_ Mandalorian? 

You sigh and put your key back in your pocket. This evening is about to get weird.

☆

If anyone were to ask the Mandalorian if he’s competitive, he would do his silent, stoic routine and refuse to dignify the question. That, or he’d give some kind of gruff response about how competition isn’t the Mandalorian way. But as soon as Cara Dune challenges him to _any_ kind of competition, all bets are off. She’s competitive to a fault and it’s _contagious_. That’s what Din tells himself, anyway; otherwise he would feel ridiculous, engaging in a childish arm wrestling competition in front of an entire tavern full of people. If it endears him to the crowd at all, it might be worth it. He just needs information from them. Perhaps publicly beating Cara in an arm-wrestling match is the way to gain their trust.

The problem: Carasynthia Dune is _strong_. It’s like she trains for this. In truth, she probably does; she probably challenges everyone she knows to arm wrestle just so she can win against the Mandalorian as a party trick. They’re at it for less than two minutes and Din’s bicep is _screaming_. Cara is just grinning at him, which makes it even worse. 

“Having trouble, buckethead?”

The Mandalorian declines to respond. He just tightens his gloved hand on hers and pushes harder. He can do this. He _can_. He’s just glad he didn’t bring the kid with him today. He doesn’t need the kid picking up on ridiculous behaviour like this. Imagine what the kid could do to an opponent with his mystical baby powers—probably break their arm or worse.

Around Din, the crowd jeers. The Mythrol who was so frightened of him earlier now seems to be taking great delight in Din’s suffering. A slight movement, and he sees the Mythrol slip a bag of credits to the Rodian next to him. The Mandalorian growls. He’s already determined to win, but the idea of them betting on his loss triples his determination.

The Mandalorian ducks his helmet and takes a deep breath. When he looks back up, Cara still has that shit-eating grin plastered across her face. He scans the crowd behind her. Just a horde of curious faces, surely rooting for the demise of a legendary bounty hunter. He grits his teeth. In the distance, the bell above the door rings. A Twi’lek in a black jumpsuit saunters in, closely followed by you. You’re far enough away that the Mandalorian doesn’t recognize you immediately. Something about you looks familiar, though; something about the way you carry yourself and the glint of the dim light off your hair triggers recognition in the back of the Mandalorian’s mind. 

You draw closer, close enough to see over the crowd gathered around Cara and the Mandalorian. Your gaze slides to the Mandalorian’s helmet and down to the signet on his pauldron. Recognition flashes across your face at the same time it hits Din and your mouth drops into a perfect _O_. 

_Dank farrik._

The Mandalorian falters for a heartbeat and Cara slams his arm down on the table so hard she nearly breaks his elbow. The crowd explodes and Din yanks his arm off the table. He spares a second to shake out the sharp pain and looks up at you, who’s— _oh_ —staring straight at him. Just like he’s staring at you. Din freezes. 

Cara is laughing, and she reaches across the table to hit the Mandalorian’s shoulder. “You in there, Mando? You owe me a drink.” 

When he doesn't respond, she follows his line of sight across the crowd to you. Cara raises an eyebrow, looking between him and you. Din is about to shove his way through the crowd and head out the door when blaster fire erupts around him. 

☆

Your first instinct when you see blasters is to hit the deck. Your second is to whip out the blaster strapped to your belt and put yourself in front of Ivaz, who’s almost certainly unarmed. A quick round of shots rings out above you, and you sneak a peek over the patrons now huddling under tables. A Rodian in the crowd has a gun drawn, pointed straight at the woman who was wrestling with the Mandalorian. Judging by her build, she could throw him across the room in a heartbeat—were it not for the red laser dot trained at the side of her head. 

Across the table, the Mandalorian has his blaster drawn. Tension is thick in the air.

“What do you want with her?”

The sound of Din’s voice sends shivers through your body. It’s the tone he uses for threats: low and monotone, modulated for maximum intimidation. You pity the Rodian on the receiving end of it. You also try not to think about the heat that starts to pool in your lower belly at the sound.

“Dropper scum.” The Rodian spits on the floor at the woman’s feet. “She killed my kin in the Civil War.” The laser from his blaster sight doesn’t move a hair as he rants, still trained right against the woman’s temple. “I’ve been hunting shock troopers across the galaxy. Cara Dune is the last on my list.”

Cara Dune _._ You don’t recognize the name. What is her relation to the Mandalorian? Judging by the speed with which he jumped up to defend her, there’s something between them. If she’s a friend of Din’s, she’s a friend of yours. Maybe it’s ridiculous to think so, considering you barely know him, but you trust his judgement.

“I was doing my job,” Cara says. Her voice is tight. She doesn’t sound scared, but she doesn’t exactly sound confident either. 

“Shut up,” the Rodian barks.

She raises her hands slowly, showing empty palms. “Why don’t we all put down our weapons and get a drink?” she says. “We can talk this out.”

“I don’t talk with those who kill my people.” 

Your eyes flick over to the Mandalorian and you catch the subtle movement as his hand moves towards his blaster. If the Rodian sees the motion, Din’s friend is dead. You flip the safety off your blaster. You just need to wait for the right moment.

“You’re going to come with me, Carasynthia Dune,” the Rodian says, “and then I’m going to kill you.”

You take a sharp breath, rise to your feet, and fire off a single shot. It zings across the room and hits your target straight-on: right between the Rodian’s glassy blue eyes. He slumps to the ground and his blaster thumps when it hits the floor. You’re actually pretty surprised that you hit the target. No one would call you a crack shot, and you were fully expecting to miss his face and take him out with an errant shot to his chest or arm or the like. 

Every head in the room whips in your direction. The Mandalorian is staring at you, too; it’s obvious, even with the dark visor over his face.

You jerk your head in the direction of the door. Now is a good time to get the hell out here. 

☆

“So _you’re_ the reason his ship looks like shit?” Cara Dune is three sheets to the wind and wheezing with laughter. “It looks like it had a run-in with a pack of Jawas.”

Cara is drunk, and you’re not much better. You’ve been drinking steadily since you sprinted out of the tavern, Din and Cara in tow. No one pursued you; apparently, there’s no one on Canto Bight bold enough to try it with a Mandalorian, a shock trooper, and a trigger-happy drifter. Ivaz wanted nothing to do with the three of you and went home immediately, despite your invitation to stay. 

Now Cara is slumped at your desk, flask in hand, poking fun at you. You’re on your cot, back against the wall and nursing a glass of whiskey. Din is—sulking, or something, it’s kind of hard to tell with the helmet and all that. Standing against the wall, all he does is stay silent and reflect the dim light of your lamp.

“‘s not all my fault,” you explain. _“I_ didn’t crash the ship. That was shiny over there.”

Cara snorts. “Sounds like you got yourself captured, though.” 

You roll your eyes and give up. Now _that_ you can’t deny. It’s not like Din is intervening in your defense, though. He’s just standing there. It’s making you uneasy, actually. You haven’t seen each other in months and you honestly never expected to see him again after you parted ways on Trask. Now you’re both here, you saved his shiny metal ass for the _second_ time, and he’s standing in the corner of your room like he would rather be literally anywhere else in the galaxy.

Your mood sours quickly. Cara doesn’t notice, still focused on emptying her flask and drawing the entire story of how you know the Mandalorian out of you. So far, you’ve told her about the meeting on Tatooine, the crash-landing on Maldo Kreis, the kidnapping attempt by Kuuza and Darend, and the farewell on Trask. You might’ve sped through that last part, looking at the floor and the ceiling and anywhere but Din. Also left out of the story: Din taking you on the dashboard of his cockpit and making you come on his face on the floor of a captured ship. Cara doesn’t need to know about that. For all you know, she’s an old flame of Din’s too. You try not to think about that possibility.

Eventually, Cara gets bored of interrogating you. Perhaps she’d stay longer if the Mandalorian was in the mood, but his presence is killing any and all attempts to salvage the evening. The shock trooper thanks you again for intervening in the firefight, tells Din where to find her if he needs her help, and waves you off when you offer to walk her back to her lodgings.

“I can handle my whiskey better than you, sweetheart.” She winks at you. “I’ll see you around.” 

The door shuts behind her and you’re left alone with the Mandalorian. Considering the time you spent stranded on an ice planet and in a smugglers’ cell, it shouldn’t feel as uncomfortable as it does. But the only detectable movement from him in the last hour was a slight nod when Cara left. It’s impossible to get a read on him tonight.

You huff and slide down the wall to lay on your cot. “Give it a rest, Mando.”

A slight tilt of the helmet in your direction. It’s _way_ too judgmental for how subtle the motion is.

“Isn’t it exhausting being so dramatic all the time?”

It’s not your intention to be rude, but your head is spinning with whiskey and it’s making your blood feel warm and fiery and you want to _do_ something but the Mandalorian is giving you nothing but ice. You thought you’d be glad to see him, but now you’re just embarrassed. All the time you spent imagining what you would do with him if you crossed paths again, and he’s giving you _nothing_. Oops—wrong train of thought. Now you’re remembering that you’ve had those thoughts _in this room_ , you’ve made yourself come with those thoughts _on this bed,_ and the subject of your fantasies is ten feet away and wants _nothing_ to do with you. 

“I’m not.”

 _What?_ Oh, right, you asked him a question.

“Yes, you are. You’re dramatic, Din.”

Your head is on your pillow and you’re looking up at the ceiling, but the Mandalorian’s heavy footsteps makes you glance in his direction. At the sound of his name from you, he crosses the room to you. You push yourself up to a sitting position and stick your chin out at him.

“What?”

His hand flexes at his side. _Stars_ , that’s kind of hot. He’s probably mad, but it’s still hot. 

“You—you’re…” he trails off.

“I’m _what?”_

“A problem,” he finishes. 

“Are you kidding me?” You’re not mad, not exactly. You’re too tired to feel anything above the level of mild irritation. “I just saved your friend, and now I’m a _problem?”_

He just keeps staring at you. Outside, you hear the normal noises of evening in Canto Bight. No one knows about what’s transpiring between you two; everything that happens in this room stays in this room. Somehow, that gives you confidence. You stand up and cross your arms. Right in front of his stupid helmet. 

Kriff, he’s tall. You kind of forgot that. Oh, and _Maker_ , he smells good. The familiar leather and unnamable masculine scent that makes you feel _feral_. Maybe you drank slightly too much. 

“Is that Corellian whiskey?” His voice is a low rumble through the modulator. Your knees feel weak, and you know it’s not just from the alcohol and the adrenaline.

“Yes.” Why are you breathless all of a sudden?

“You didn’t drink that before.”

How the _fuck_ does he know you didn’t drink Corellian whiskey before? Before Maldo Kreis; before _there are other ways to get warm_. How the _fuck_ does he know it’s been the only drink you keep with you since you left him on Trask? That helmet doesn’t come with a mind reader, that much you know.

Is it possible you’re so _obvious,_ even when you won’t admit it to yourself? 

“Din…” You don’t know what to say, because you never know that to say to him, so you just act instead. Without willing it, your hand finds his chest, resting on the leather belt just above his heart. Your arms creep up to circle around his neck and he jerks back. It’s a subtle motion, though it’s enough to knock you off balance. You tighten your arms around him for stability but he pushes you away.

“No.” His tone is firm.

The fire in your blood goes out as quickly as it started. _No_. No explanation, just _no_. You push him right back, and he stumbles backwards, away from you. Your face burns. 

“You can leave,” you bite out, “since you obviously don’t want to be here.” 

His helmet tilts down and he runs his hand across his visor, like he’s giving up. You huff, and then immediately hate yourself for being so maudlin. Maker, this is not how you wanted this evening to go. You just wanted to sleep, then Ivaz dragged you to the tavern. Then you ran into him, and you just wanted to talk to him, but now you’re left frustrated and confused. 

He looks at the floor, then finally back up at you.

 _This is it,_ you think. _The moment he tells you you’ve gone too far. He’s a_ Mandalorian _, you idiot. What made you think you should get into it with a Mandalorian?_

But the angry words don’t come. “I’m hunting,” he says, his tone softer than you expected. “But the kid is on the _Crest_. The north dock. I’ll be there in a day or two.”

You blink. That’s not what you were expecting. You try to think of something smart to say, but all that comes out is a confused “okay.” 

Before you can even start to phrase the questions bouncing around in your brain, he’s turning to leave. He hesitates in the doorway for a moment, but no longer than that. The door shuts behind him and you collapse face-first onto your cot. 

What the _fuck_ was that? 

☆

Why did you look so good? Dressed in evening clothes with a leather jacket on your shoulders, blaster strapped to a loose belt around your waist. What are you doing on Canto Bight that you’re dressed like that? What are you doing on Canto Bight at all? And why did you smell so _good?_ Under the whiskey, you smelled like rich perfume, like lust personified. You were warm all over, but your tone was icy.

 _You can leave._ It rings in the Mandalorian’s head, echoing until it’s etched into his skull. _Since you obviously don’t want to be here_.

The Mandalorian isn’t in the mood to keep hunting, but he needs to think about anything but you right now. If he goes back to the _Crest,_ he’ll lay in his cot and think about you. He’ll wonder what you’re doing. He’ll wonder why you’re here. And he’ll think about how you smell and the sound of your voice and he’ll have a problem on his hands that he can’t deal with without feeling guilty.

Maker, the way you looked shooting down that Rodian. Din and Cara would’ve figured a way out of the situation eventually, but a beautiful woman with a blaster coming to their rescue was certainly welcome. You looked so confident standing there, so competent. _Fearless_. Everything that Din likes. Just thinking about you like that makes Din feel like he’s on fire. 

_You’re a problem._ What in the name of the Maker had possessed him to say that? Of _course_ you told him to leave.

He considers finding Cara again just to take his mind off things, but she’ll only have more questions than answers. He doesn’t feel like answering questions about you right now; he also doesn’t feel like dealing with Cara’s various enemies again. Instead, he tugs his cloak tighter around him and slips in the darkness of the Canto Bight backstreets. A day or two, that’s what he said. He has to finish the job in a day or two; he needs to get back to the _Crest_ in time. Just in case. 

☆

_At the north dock. I’ll be there in a day or two._

Could he have possibly said anything more ambiguous? You’ve been turning the Mandalorian’s words over in your head for nearly a full day, trying to figure out what he meant. When you walked into the tavern, he looked at you and his body language was like he’d been struck by lightning. Then he acted like he didn’t want anything to do with you when you invited him and Cara over. And, of course, he called you a _problem_ then invited you to his ship. Mixed messages, that’s what this is called.

You aren’t going to work tonight, that much you’ve decided. It’ll be a slow night at the casino and you know deep in your heart that you’re going to the _Razor Crest_ , even if you have no idea what to expect when you arrive. You need answers, at least. What did he mean, you’re a _problem?_ What does that mean? 

So you’re a problem for him, but you have your own problem: what do you bring with you? Do you pack a bag? _I’ll be there in a day or two_ ; is that Din-speak for _come with me?_ The last time he asked you to join him, it wasn’t a question. It was just—a statement. He’s not very good at speaking his mind, which is usually fine, but now you don’t know what to do. Is bringing a bag presumptuous? Do you even want to send that message? Would you go with him if he asked?

An hour later and you’re walking to the north dock with your coarseweave bag in hand. If the Mandalorian has questions about your intentions, you’ll pretend you’re him and stay silent. Make him figure it out. 

When you arrive, the _Crest_ looks—well, somehow it looks even worse than when you first saw it on Tatooine. Are those _fishnets_ draped across it? Maker above. The scar down the side from your hasty repairs on Maldo Kreis are still clear as day. The gangplank is down, and the gate slides open when you punch in the entry code.

You kind of thought that Mandalorian would’ve changed the entry code since he told you it on Maldo Kreis. He only told you out of necessity, considering you were stranded together on the ice, but it can’t be smart to keep the code the same afterwards. _Unless…_

You shake your head and duck in the gate. It’s dark and quiet inside the hull. You step loudly, hoping to signal your entrance. When no one responds, you shout in the direction of the cockpit.

“Hello?” 

Again, no response. Well, he did say he was hunting; maybe he’s not back yet. You wander into the hold, looking at the familiar stacks of crates and boxes, the empty patches of floor where you’d laid your bedroll just months before. You run your hand along the welding scars on the hull made by your own hands. You set your bag on the floor and sink down next to it, lost in thought. 

A quiet noise in the distance snaps you out of your daze. Behind a box to your right, you see the tip of a big green ear appear.

“Hey, little guy.” 

At the sound of your voice, the whole ear appears, plus one big black eye. The child peers out at you from behind the crate, his little three-fingered hand holding the corner.

“Hey." You can't help but smile. “Come over here.”

You open your arms and he comes waddling towards you with a toothy little grin on his face. Your heart squeezes. He’s as cute as always, grabbing at your pants with his clumsy hands as he crawls up into your lap. Is he _purring?_ He’s a weird little creature, but you missed him. 

You rub your fingers on his ears and he nestles right into your arms, cooing happily. It’s not hard to remember why you threw yourself in front of a dagger for him. He’s so sweet and innocent, even when he’s doing disgusting things like eating amphibians whole and using his mystical baby powers for mischievous ends. 

He is also, apparently, sleepy. You pet his wrinkly green head and his eyes start to slip shut. You pull your knees closer to your chest to give him a little space to nest in, and it’s not ten minutes before he’s snoozing happily in your arms. It’s quiet in the hold except for the small, sleepy noises the child makes. There’s no sign of the Mandalorian. You’re more than happy to stay here with the sleeping child, even if your legs start to go dumb on the durasteel floor. 

Maybe you’ll sleep too. You’re tired, after all. It can’t hurt. 

☆

It’s dark outside when the Mandalorian finally apprehends the runaway captain. The man tries to run as soon as he sees the glint of beskar, but the Mandalorian is faster. He punches the captain to the ground when he tries to flee and puts binders on his unconscious body. It’s not fun, hauling a limp, dirty body halfway through the casino quarter of Canto Bight, but Din will do anything to get off this forsaken planet. He’s wasted far too much time on a single puck. Not to mention the incident with you. Half of him is hoping he’ll get back to the _Crest_ and find you leaning against the hull, greeting him with a raised eyebrow and a sarcastic comment. The other half is hoping you’re done with him forever and he can focus on thinking about literally anything else.

The _Crest_ looks untouched when he finally arrives. At some point, he gave up on dragging and the bounty and hauled him over his shoulders like a sack of produce. The combined weight of the bounty and his armor is weighing the Mandalorian down, and he’s relieved that nothing looks off with his ship. He’s looking forward to a trip to the ‘fresher followed by collapsing on his cot and passing out without a single thought crossing his mind. 

He drops the bounty and drags him up the gangplank and into the hull. It’s dark inside—he left the lights off so the kid could sleep—and he flicks a light near the gate.

 _Oh_. 

You’re there. Just—sitting against the wall of the hold. Your head is tilted back, your eyes shut, your breath short and slow. You’re asleep. In your arms, Din realizes, is the child. _His_ child. Passed out peacefully, nestled in the fabric of your shirt. 

The sight twists like a knife in Din’s stomach. For so long he tried to tell himself that you weren’t special; that he thought about you for purely biological reasons, because you were warm and soft and he’s not used to things that are warm and soft, not because you meant anything. This, though—this is different. You’re holding the child so carefully; your knees are drawn up to your chest to make him a little nest, just like he likes it, and your hand is resting on his jacket like you fell asleep petting him. It awakens something unnameable in the Mandalorian. He lingers on the feeling for half a second and feels hot all over. It does things to him, seeing you hold his son like that. You’re—kriff, there’s not words for what you are. Strong and unwavering and tough; fiery and fierce, when you need to be; and, like this, soft. Warm. Gentle. Seeing you with his son like this makes him feel things he’s never felt before. It makes him want things he’s never wanted before. 

All of that poses a problem for Din. He turns around and grabs the unconscious bounty on the floor. He’ll deal with this first—if only he can convince his exhausted muscles to work. 

☆

You wake up to the sound of heavy footsteps. You nearly bang your head on the durasteel behind you when you jerk awake, but you keep your arms still to keep from waking the child.

The lights are on in the hold. The Mandalorian is there. He’s not facing you, and as you blink sleep from your eyes, you realize he’s hauling a limp body across the floor. Charming. Certainly, he’s noticed your presence. He had to see you when he came in through the gate—right? 

You clear your throat just in case. His helmet turns just a fraction.

“Hi.”

Silence from him. He just keeps dragging the body—is that person _dead?_ why does every situation with the Mandalorian involve dead people?—towards the carbonite chamber. 

This is ridiculous. You came here to have a conversation, if nothing else. “Hey, shiny.” The child stirs in your arms. “Do you need a hand?”

The stubborn idiot keeps ignoring you and goes to haul the body up the ladder, but he moves slowly, like he’s exhausted. You set the child, now awake and looking for his father, on the floor.

“You keep sleeping, buddy. Don’t worry.”

The Mandalorian might not admit he needs your help, but he does. Shoving him and the body out of the way, you start to climb the ladder into the carbonite chamber. 

“You lift, I’ll pull,” you say over your shoulder. 

Surprisingly, he does as you say. He really must be tired. Eventually, the two of you manage to wrestle the body up the ladder, and it’s in carbonite in short order. The chamber wooshes as the body freezes and the Mandalorian leans back against the wall. Oddly, this feels a lot like the days you spent on Maldo Kreis, working in tandem without need for words.

“You came.”

_Really? We’re going to do this in the corpse fridge?_

“Yeah. I did.”

“I didn’t think you would."

“Neither did I.” 

Din drops his head to his chest. He looks _exhausted_. You’re burning for answers, but you won’t press him like this. You sigh and gesture towards the stern.

“Go take a shower or something. You look like you’re about to pass out.” It’s fine, you tell yourself, you can do this later. “I’ll be in the cockpit.”

You duck out the door before he can even figure out what to say. 

☆

“You said I was a problem. What does that mean?”

Outside, the lights of Canto Bight glitter off the viewport. It’s quiet on the ship, with the kid asleep again in his crib and all bounties secured in carbonite. The north dock is far enough from the casino quarter that the hum of the city is faint in the distance. The Mandalorian is sitting in the pilot’s seat, still tired but less dirty. He hasn’t spoken much since emerging from the ‘fresher. The armor is back on, as usual.

He doesn’t answer you for a long moment and you consider giving up. Why did you even come here? Why did you even think you matter enough to him to get answers? What answers did you think you’d get? You spent a week and a half together in space, several months ago. That’s not exactly a significant life event. Not for a bounty hunter. That’s no more eventful than a regular week for him. You’re nothing to him and he should be nothing to you. 

“I have a mission,” he says, finally. He’s not looking at you. His visor faces the viewport, his gaze trained on something outside. “Take the child to the Jedi. You’re not my mission.”

His words are a blaster bolt straight to the stomach. You weren’t expecting kindness, not after what you said last night, but that’s crueler than you thought he would be. You were a fool to come here and expect anything but coldness. He keeps talking, even though you wish he would stop. 

“Why can’t I stop thinking about you?”

_What?_

Your head jerks up at the sound of his voice, so soft and raw even through the helmet. He’s looking at you now. The pilot’s chair is turned to face you and you feel pinned.

“You _what?”_

“I—I can’t stop,” he stutters. 

You’re not used to seeing him like this. You’re used to his confidence. His attitude. His reticence. Is this what he’s like under the helmet when he’s so stoic? Does he stay silent when he doesn’t know what to say because he would falter if he tried? Your heart slams against your ribs.

“You’re a distraction.” His gloved hand curls around the armrest of the chair. “You distract me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

He’s right. You really aren’t.

“So, when you said I was a problem…” You lean forward in the co-pilot’s chair, propping your chin on your hand. “...you really meant that I’m a distraction?”

“Yes.” His voice is rough, but not the kind of rough he uses for threats. This is different, and it lights a fire deep inside you.

“What if I told you that you’re a problem for me too?”

The Mandalorian is still as a statue. The energy in the cockpit has shifted in just a few words. It was tense before, but not like this; you feel less like you’re preparing for a fight and more like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff and want to dive. 

“Come here,” he growls.

 _Finally_.

The Mandalorian’s hands are heavy on the small of your back as you sink into his lap. Now this— _this_ feels familiar. The corded muscle of his thighs underneath you; the light reflecting off his visor; the sound of his breath shaky and uneven. He goes to push off your jacket but you bat his hand away.

“Wait.” From your jacket pocket, you pull a thin strip of dark fabric. It’s frayed and torn on the edges. Just the fact that you have it with you—that you keep it on you like a good luck charm or a talisman—makes you blush. The Mandalorian’s hands tighten around your waist when he recognizes it. You lift the fabric to your eyes and he knots it for you, mindful of your hair, and you shove the jacket off as soon as the blindfold is secure.

You stare blindly down at him, hopefully in the direction of his helmet. “Take it off.” 

He was already half-hard when you climbed into his lap, but he gets harder at the sound of your command. Maker, that’s hot. Big, scary Mandalorian, turned on just because you give him orders in a pretty voice. Your hands drop from his shoulders to his chest, toying with his ammo belt. 

“I like hearing you. _Really_ you.” 

He sucks in a breath. A rustling noise, the clang of beskar on the durasteel floor, and the shuddering sound of the Mandalorian breathing fresh air. 

You lean in, but he stops you with a gloved finger over your lips. 

“ _Din_ ,” you whine. The heat between your legs is growing and you need something to release the tension. You sound petulant, but you don’t care. 

“I—oh, _fuck_ ,” he breaks off as you duck your head around his hand to kiss his neck. “Fuck. _Stop_.” 

The tone of his voice is concerning enough that you jerk back quickly. Did you go too far? You take your hands off his body, setting them in your lap. You’re worried this is like last night, when you put your arms around his neck and he shoved you off.

“Okay.” Your voice is soft. “It’s fine. We don’t have to do anything.”

“No, I—” Din cuts himself off with a frustrated growl, and you feel his arm come up to rub his face. “ _Fuck_. I want you, but I—”

“If it’s like last night, I understand,” you say. You wilt a little at the rejection, but it’s fine. Really. It’s _fine_. What was your plan, anyway? Fuck him in the cockpit and say goodbye? Or—fuck him in the cockpit and ask to stay?

He sounds confused. “Last night?”

You huff and cross your arms. It would be more threatening if you weren’t literally in his lap, but it’s the best you can do in the circumstances. 

“Yeah, last night. When I saved your friend, brought you back to my room, tried to climb you like a tree, and you shoved me off.” 

His big hand is warm around the back of your neck as he pulls you in. He rests his forehead against yours, and you can feel his breath against your lips as he laughs. “Sweet girl, you were drunk.”

 _Obviously_. What does that have to do with...

Oh. _Oh_. The realization hits you like lightning. You feel warm all over, and it’s not the fiery heat he usually causes. It’s not that he didn’t _want_ you last night; he didn’t want you to do something you’d regret. Now you’re a little embarrassed, having assumed the worst about his intentions when he was actually trying to protect you. _Fuck,_ you like it when he gets protective. 

Also—did he call you _sweet girl?_ The sound of that endearment in his low rasp makes your heartbeat pound between your legs. 

“What about—now?” Your voice is small in the space between you. “I’m not drunk. But if you’re tired, or it’s something else, I understand.”

“I want you.” He cuts off your nervous ramble and it sends a shiver down your spine. “But I’m not taking you here. It’s filthy. You deserve a bed, at least.”

You bite back the sassy remark on your tongue and smile instead. That’s sweet, actually. Coming from a man who stutters when he talks about his feelings and chokes on words of affection, that’s high praise. Clearly, he thinks better of you than you think of yourself. If it was up to you, you’d let him take you on every surface on his ship. But he’s being sweet, even if it’s not exactly what you want to hear. 

Unfortunately, his cot certainly doesn’t qualify as a bed, and you don’t want to wait until you find somewhere he deems worthy of you. 

You shift in his lap. You need something to ease the tension growing inside you. Some kind of— _fuck_ , some kind of _friction…_

“Oh, sweet girl,” he murmurs, and you know you’ve been caught. One of his big hands slides down your back to curve around your ass and he hauls you closer. The movement of his thigh against your core makes your mouth fall open on a gasp. “You really want it, don’t you?”

A noise not unlike a whimper tears out of your throat. He’s just so _overwhelming_. He’s so big and broad and intimidating but he’s so slow and _gentle_ with you. He makes you feel so _needy_. 

You rock your hips again, and it’s his turn to groan. “Fuck,” he bites out. You reach out for him blindly, your hand landing right on his belt. He groans when you trace the hard length in his pants. “I won’t—oh, _shit_. Not here. But you can…” 

He cuts himself off with a groan when you grind down on his thigh. His head makes a muffled thump when he drops it back against the headrest of the seat. You duck down to kiss his neck, still moving against him, pushing yourself higher.

“Yeah. _That_. Keep doing that.” You don’t know if he means keep kissing his neck or keep riding his thigh, so you continue with both.

His hand finds your belly and it makes you jump a little. His hand covers so much of you. The size difference between you makes you a little lightheaded. He toys with the fastening of your pants.

“Can I…?”

“Yes. Please.” It comes out a rush of breath. “Take the gloves off.” 

Din’s gloves hit the floor with a soft thump. Then his clever fingers are working open your pants, slipping underneath, and oh— _stars_ , how does he know how to touch you just right, just where you need it?

You whimper and tilt your hips into his touch. His hand is so big that his palm is still flat on your lower belly while he circles your clit with his thick fingers. It makes you _feel_ things, his hand on your stomach. Filthy, forbidden things. His touch is firm and precise and you know you’re going to soak through your clothes and onto him. _Fuck,_ that shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does, the idea of your slick staining his armor. 

“That’s it. Good. _Good_.” All the confidence in his voice is back as he talks you through it. “Look at you, sweet girl. So fucking _perfect._ So _desperate_ for me.”

You moan, high and tight. Your head drops to his shoulder and you try to palm him through his trousers but it’s getting increasingly hard to focus. This is dangerous territory: when you get like this, you have no control over what you say.

“I’ve thought about this,” you murmur into the crook of his neck. “Thought about you— _mm_ —touching me like this.” 

“You have?” He sounds surprised, and his voice is fucked. It’s low and rough and raw and you can hear exactly how much your words are affecting him.

“Uh-huh. Thought about at n-night, missing you…”

All of a sudden, his hand flies up to curl into your hair and drag you up for a kiss. You melt at the feeling of his hot mouth on yours. _Stars_ , you forgot how ravenous he is when he kisses you. He groans into your mouth and his hand falters between your legs and you take the opportunity to gather your word and start undoing his belt. He’s hot and heavy under your hand and you really wish he weren’t opposed to fucking you here and now. 

His voice is low and close to your ear when he starts talking again. “Did you touch yourself and think about me?”

Your face is on fire but you nod. His other hand drops to your waist and he moves you, forcing your hips down on his thigh. The rough movement tears a moan from you and he makes an animalistic, possessive noise.

“Tell me.” He throbs under your hand when you finally get his pants open, but his mouth keeps running. His words get filthier by the second. You forgot how quickly he loses control when he’s turned on. “Tell me what you thought about while you make yourself come on my thigh.” 

You start talking. It’s a rambling, dirty, guilty stream of words, but you can’t stop. He doesn’t stop teasing you while you talk, either; he keeps moving with you as you grind down on him. You tell him about every night you thought about him, every filthy fantasy you imagined, how fucking wet you would get just _thinking_ about him. It’s not long before you’re close, losing the rhythm you built up, filthy words falling from your mouth with nothing to stop them. 

It’s embarrassing, but the fact that his hips jerk under your hand and you haven’t even really touched him makes you feel better. He’s just as desperate as you are, chasing this high without even bothering to remove your clothes. You feel your release start to build and give up completely on trying to hold back the thoughts that come to mind.

“Thought about you fucking me,” you slur. “Thought about you taking me in that f-fucking cell, like you said. Fucking—fucking letting them see, I don’t _care_. _W-wanted_ them to see, wanted to show how _good_ I am taking you…”

If you had any presence of mind, you’d be embarrassed about what you’re saying. But you’re out of your mind with desire and you’re _so_ close and admitting to every filthy thing you’ve thought about the Mandalorian is pushing you higher and higher. 

“I—I can be so _good_ for you,” you whine. “I c-can take you, _all_ of you, I can make you feel so good. I want you so bad, all the time, just want—just want you _._ I wanna stay—I wanna be here when you come back—wanna be in your bed, soft and warm for you. I wanna _stay…_ ”

Without warning, Din groans and tenses underneath you. He chokes out your name; his hand tightens in your hair at the nape of your neck so hard it almost hurts. Warmth spreads under your hand and heat flashes so bright in your stomach it almost hurts.

Holy _shit_. You—you just made the Mandalorian come in his pants, just by telling him about your fantasies. Just by telling him you want to stay. This might be the most powerful and the most aroused you’ve ever felt in your life. 

Din’s hand is still in your pants and you rock your hips down onto his thick fingers. He’s dazed, still coming back down and probably a bit embarrassed, but he manages to circle his fingers right where you ache for him. That’s it _,_ that’s all you needed. You bury your face in the crook of his neck and rock your hips into his hand as the release washes over you. It feels good to come like this, nestled in his lap, finally admitting to yourself that you missed him. That you still want him. Knowing that he still wants you too. 

☆

The Mandalorian tries to pick you up and carry you off to his cot, but you won’t budge. He wonders at your ability to make yourself dead weight so quickly. You just make a soft, peaceful noise and nestle further into his arms, your face resting in the crook of his neck and your knees on either side of his hips.

He gives up and circles his arms around your waist. Somewhere, his helmet and gloves are still lying discarded on the floor. There are things to do before he has to leave Canto Bight. There are messages to send and meters to check and things to secure in the hold. Eventually the child will wake up and want food. But here—with the warm weight of you in his lap, the lights of the city shining through the viewport—here, Din doesn’t want to move. 

He reaches up to stroke your hair with a free hand. You hum softly and nose at his neck, which is devastatingly sweet. That’s you—his sweet girl.

There’s worry in the back of his mind, though. Are you his? You said you want to stay, but you were also a bit—well, a bit _preoccupied_ when you said that. 

He can’t help himself. He’s talking before he can stop it.

“I still need help around here.”

☆

Freedom is the dearest thing to your heart and saying goodbye comes as easily as breathing. Leaving is your natural instinct. You have no home, not a place, not a person. But with Din’s hand in your hair and his arm around your waist, it’s hard to remember why you always try to run. You’re not ready to settle down, not yet, but you’re willing to stay. Maybe not permanently, but for now. 

“Okay,” you murmur. “For a while.”

Din lets out a breath you didn’t know he was holding. “Okay,” he repeats. “For a while.” 

**Author's Note:**

> All parts of this series available [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057175)
> 
> Come hang with me on [tumblr](https://letterfromvienna.tumblr.com/) xoxo


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